


Loose Ends

by La_Temperanza



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, Blow Jobs, Bondage, Established Relationship, Gags, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Shibari
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-05
Updated: 2016-03-05
Packaged: 2018-05-24 21:06:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6166879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/La_Temperanza/pseuds/La_Temperanza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I'm sorry, Wade can't come right now. He's a little tied up at the moment. </p><p>(Haha, <i>get it?</i>)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Loose Ends

**Author's Note:**

> Because when the person behind the fuckyesdeadpool tumblr asks for porn for her birthday, you write some mothafuckin' porn.

"If I knew this was all it took to shut you up, I would've tried it years ago."

See, that's hardly fair, and not just because a major motion picture studio has already done it once by sewing Deadpool's mouth shut. And everyone knows how well _that_ turned out. 

It's because it's coming from Peter Parker, a.k.a. Spider-Man, a.k.a. webhead, a.k.a. Spidey, a.k.a. the arachnid boy wonder...okay, so maybe not much that last one, but you get the drift. Sure, he might have everyone else fooled with his "look at me, I save stranded cats from trees and walk poor old ladies across the road because I’m such a goody two-shoes" persona. But Wade knows that while Peter might be a Daddy longlegs in the streets, he's a tarantula in the sheets. 

Are tarantulas known for having freaky-deaky sex? Wade's thinks he's read something about it before, or he could have imagined the whole thing. In any case, the description stays.

The point is, Spidey is one to talk. No, literally. Like he might not ever admit it, but he can be as much as a Chatty Cathy as Wade sometimes. It's one of the reasons they work so well together; their snappy back and forth banter would put Abbott and Costello to shame. 

(Wade would like to take this opportunity to ponder the possibility of Abbott and Costello banging each other behind the scenes, but concludes that if they did, they would've had to rename their act "Who's Come First?")

But while Peter is like the one kid that could blab forever in class and still be teacher's pet, Wade's the kind who gets assigned detention the moment he steps into the room. 

It doesn't matter, because after Peter shyly admitted one of his secret fantasies the other night when they had been throwing back one too many cold ones, Wade would have gone as far as taking a vow of silence if it was the only way he could make the dream a reality. 

It's Peter that appears to be having second thoughts now. All his bravado from just a second ago dissipates as he furrows his brow in a way that always reminds Wade of the symbol for free Wi-Fi. 

"You sure you're okay with this?" He asks Wade for the umpteenth time and Wade wants to shout that while he's _sure_ he won't die from a case of blue balls, he's not exactly willing to test that theory. 

But it comes out as an affirmative "mmpfh!" because oh right, the gag thing. It's crafted out of Peter's webbing itself and is supposed to be completely safe. Wade just doesn't know if it's safe as in "a vegan activist's wet dream" safe or "banned from sale in the state of California" safe. 

Whatever. It's not like it can give him _more_ cancer.

It's good that he's so blasé about being in direct contact with the stuff, because it's also woven around his naked body, tied in intricate knots at various points of interest. For it being their first time doing this, Peter's done an excellent job wrapping Wade up--

[ Don't go the cliche route and say "in his web," **_do not say in his web_** \-- ]

\--okay, _fine_. He did an excellent job wrapping him up...up like a cotton-twined ham. 

Ugh, great, that comparison only conjures up the most unappealing image ever. Wade's not knocking those who are into that sort of thing (he's given seductive glances towards certain chimichangas himself back in the day), but with his scarred, disfigured appearance he now feels like a burnt, dried-out hunk of meat. Which is never Good Eats. 

Though it doesn't seem to deter Peter from getting that hungry gleam in his eye. He sinks down to his knees and grabs Wade's parts and parcel to string that up too, tying it all off with a neat bow. 

Forget blue, Wade's balls are going to be positively black once this over. He was already at half-mast before, but now he's got his dick's full attention. The problem is that webbing restricts things from swelling, which of course turns him on even more, wash, rinse, repeat. 

Peter's not helping matters either. His hands travel back down to snake in between Wade's legs and brush against his taint. They push aside the band of webbing that's lodged up Wade's asscrack tighter than a Victoria Secret's thong on a hippopotamus--yes Wade has tried it before, don't ask, money was involved--and at first Peter just makes circular motions that soothe and stimulate at the same time. Then one of his fingers presses inside Wade’s hole. It just the tip, and Peter is being careful about it, but the delicious burn it provides sends a shudder rippling down Wade’s spine. 

Peter doesn't dare push in any farther though, not without lube. It always amazes Wade how he's managed to be with someone who _doesn't_ think his healing factor makes him a quick and easy lay. Don't get him wrong; the two of them have defiled plenty of rooftops by going at it rough and heavy, still wearing their suits while the adrenaline from a mission was pumping in their veins. But it's never been at the expense of each other. 

While Wade is acclimating to his finger, Peter scoots forward and breathes a hot, moist gust of air along the underside of Wade’s cock before licking a broad stripe up it. He pauses at the tip, his tongue lapping the beads of precome that have already formed at the slit, and then encloses his entire mouth around the glans. 

In his head, Wade invokes the names of every deity he’s ever heard of plus a couple he’s created just for the occasion. He wishes he could run his fingers through Peter’s hair and hold on for dear life, but going along with the theme of the night, his hands are fastened tightly behind his back.

But just as Wade is weighing the pros and cons of dislocating both of his shoulders, Peter pulls away with a juicy pop at the same time he removes his finger. Even though the gag Wade’s disappointed whine is indistinguishable, which makes Peter--the sadistic spider that he is--smirk and ask, “You didn’t think it was going to be that easy, did you?”

To add insult to injury, he’s still fully clothed. Wade moves one of his legs (the only limbs of his that aren’t secured) and rubs his foot along the tell-tale bulge at the front of Peter’s pajama bottoms. He’s rewarded for his efforts when Peter jumps slightly and lets out a soft gasp.

“Should’ve known that you have a foot fetish, Wilson,” he huffs, to which Wade wants to reply that he’s not the one getting his kicks from being tickled by toes. 

But he can’t. Oh no, not because of the aforementioned gag. But because Peter returns to sucking him with a renewed fervor. After that, any thoughts running through Wade’s head are temporarily replaced with a single long _nnnnngh_.

There’s the crinkle of a foil packet being opened behind him, and then a solitary finger presses against him again, now slickened. The digit eases in so slowly that Wade is positive Peter is doing it as payback for something. Was it for leaving pizza boxes around the apartment so he could build a cardboard fort? Was it for replacing Peter’s ringtone with Wade’s own inappropriate rendition of “Itsy Bitsy Spider” that happened to go off during their weekly dinner with Aunt May? Or maybe it was because of the time he convinced Peter that no one was around in the Avengers’ hangar, only for them to be caught with their pants down by both Iron Man and Captain America?

Wade would confess to being Jack the Ripper, the Zodiac Killer, and an unironically lover of country music if it would just get Peter to move _fucking_ faster.

Maybe it’s just a coincidence, or maybe the writers-that-be slipped in “projected telepathy” into his list of abilities without notice. Because Peter suddenly adds a second finger, thrusting upwards so he’s sinked all the way to his knuckles.

Wade almost eliminates the need for a gag when nearly swallows his tongue. Before he can even recover from this recent development, his cock is making its acquaintance with Peter’s tonsils and oh look, he’s been invited to stay around for dinner. He would’ve blown his load at least two times by now, but he’s prevented by the strands of webbing that are circled around him so tight he’s half-afraid it’s going to fall off due to lack of circulation.

Peter has apparently formulated this system of using the combination of his mouth and fingers to bring Wade to the very edge until he’s on his figurative tip-toes, only to back down at the last moment, wait for Wade to come back down, and then do it all over again in an endless cycle of sexual frustration. 

Just as Wade determines that this has to be a violation of the Geneva Conventions (and damn it, he even finds that hot), Peter manages to twist his fingers despite the angle and curl the tips around Wade’s prostate.

Wade can’t recall ever begging for anything in his entire life, but he soon realizes he’s pleading his case in six different languages around the webbing in his mouth. It’s a miracle that he’s been able to stand for this long, considering he’s shaking like a geriatric chihuahua with a full bladder; he needs to come so badly that it _hurts_.

He can’t continue like this for much longer and it looks like Peter isn’t faring much better. His free hand is cupping himself and there’s a fevered flush to his hollowed out cheeks as he works. In his haste, his teeth snags the knot of webbing hard enough that it unties and loosens its deadly grip on Wade’s ejculatory system. 

And then it's as if the Little Dutch Boy just said “fok it” and removed his finger to let the dyke burst. The force and speed by which Wade comes is so great that Peter chokes and has to let it dribble out of the side of his mouth. But just when Wade thinks that’s all folks, Peter crooks his fingers even more, milking Wade’s abused prostate with short spurts until everything last drop is spent. Afterwards Wade feels like a dollar bill in a stripper’s g-string: dirty, used, and faintly reeking of stale beer. And someone better yell “timber!”, because he’s going down down _down_...

Peter catches him as his legs finally give out and they both land in a collapsed sweaty heap, the room filled with the sounds of their labored breathing and the thick smell of sex. For a second Wade thinks he might have died and gone to heaven, but there’s three things wrong with that scenario:

  1. He can’t die that easily, and when he does, it’s never for long.
  2. Even if he did die for realsies, people like him tend to head _south_ for the long winter.
  3. He has serious doubts Peter would be in heaven with come drying on his chin.



Totally beats the 72 virgins thing any day though.

“Pmpfh,” Wade mumbles the moment circulation returns to his head. You know, the less important one. But he’s still has the damn gag in his mouth, so he tries to get Peter’s attention by doing what he does best: being loud. “Pmpfh!”

“Wha?” Peter asks while he's in the middle of catching his breath. But once he realizes Wade is struggling he quickly breaks the rest of the webbing away. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

Now that Wade’s free, he wastes no time in taking matters into his own hands. And by “matters,” he means Peter’s erection. “I was trying to tell you that you have something on your face,” he says, his voice low and gravely as he leans in close, “and you should let me help you with that.”

Now if you excuse him, Wade has a couple more fantasies he needs to inspire.


End file.
